


Like Independence Day

by cobblepologist



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Codependency, Disturbing Themes, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gore, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Instability, Murder, Murder Husbands, Psychological Trauma, Serial Killers, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships, bad people doing bad things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-15 08:26:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14786954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobblepologist/pseuds/cobblepologist
Summary: Oswald eyes him, sizes him up. "Becoming a cliché, that's what." The blood thumps painfully in his ears now, and Oswald crowding into his space is a dilution of that rush he's felt before. Head fuzzy and full of air. "That's all they're going to see when they look at you," he sneers. "Poor little Edward who daddy didn't love. You're like every other murderer out there. What makesyouspecial?"AU where Edward and Oswald are both serial killers, and Oswald is Edward's next victim.





	Like Independence Day

First, there had been Officer Dougherty. That had been an accident, but a fortuitous, fatal accident. Like an x-ray of his darker desires. The rush felt too good.

Then Kristen. Honest mistake, really. Cut her up and sent her away afterwards. Riddler really loved that one, kept little souvenirs and trinkets from her. Her glasses. He told him he couldn't do it again, not if they were going to do this _right,_  make a habit out of it.

He lost track of the names after that. The Curator. The Writer. The Philosopher. The Mathematician. The Painter. The Professor. Here, names weren't as important, couldn't define them. Not in the grand schematic fleshing itself out before him.

Until Isabella, sweet Isabella with her face like Kristen's and her hair like spidersilk. Her body was so waxy after. She was the only one he took pictures of. It was a compromise.

He takes a break for a while. He needs one. He's still high from the thrill of Kri- Isabella, and he exhales.

It isn't until the need returns, and the threat of obscurity overwhelms him that he begins again.

He converses with Riddler. The first one that catches their eye, he insists, must be the first renewal. A long winter is followed by the flowering of the earth. They must _feel_  it this time, remove logic and fallacy from the equation. A gut instinct to bury themselves in the next's guts.

A funny, small man, someone no one would miss, except- a mother, maybe, an immigrant no one would take seriously? Everything about him is peculiar and eye-catching. His hair clings to his face, slick and black like oil, and he has those birdish features that only a few pull off. No one would miss him, yes, but Edward couldn't miss him.

He stalks him, of course he does. Meticulous notes. Outlines his schedule. It never makes sense.

It goes on like this for a week. Edward is nothing if not careful, concerned, and he follows him closely. Watches him order food from expensive cafes, places he shouldn't be able to afford. Sees him disappear into shady night clubs for hours at a time. At one point, he's able to get into one. He watches him watch other boys. They leave, eventually, and he follows him home as well. Once, he sees him talk with one man. An officer. His body language shifts to so much more open than Edward had ever seen it before.

He searches through his trash. Finds letters addressed to an "Oswald Cobblepot."

Then, one night, he walks with a cap pulled low over his face as Edward follows. He gets in his car, and Edward runs back to his. Some confrontation, he takes it, as he trails him to the docks. An unusual place for a rendezvous. He waits, and waits in his car, hidden beside a warehouse. It's about twenty minutes before Oswald emerges from his car. Edward's eyes are bleary, but he finally sits up straight, hands clutching the wheel in anticipation. Oswald limps to his trunk, opens it, and-

There's a man inside, tied up. He manages to drag him out. He takes a gun from his vest, cocks it, and shoots the man, point-blank.

Oswald begins the process of clean-up, namely pushing the man into the bay. Edward feels as if he just awoke from a long sleep, comalike, while he watches. Bated. He sees a grace in his movements that wasn't there before. The flutter of wings.

Compelled by some, unexplainable force, he readies himself. _Now or never, Eddie._  There's chloroform in the glove compartment, rags as well. He works fast, while Oswald is still preoccupied with his kill. He's making enough noise to not attract attention, but he's not quiet enough to hear Edward sneak up behind him, movements subtle. Then, cloth over the nose and mouth.

Edward revels in holding him like that for the necessary five minutes. He struggles, so of course that makes it harder, and he fights back and gets turned around enough so that their eyes meet. Edward recognizes his brows furrowing into confusion, and then

lights out.

* * *

When Oswald comes to, he's got it perfectly staged. Like a scene out of a movie. He can see Riddler watching him from a carefully angled mirror, sees him sitting on his couch in anticipation. His own back is to the window, so he's obscured in shadow. The light from outside bounces off of Oswald's skin, glistening with overexertion. He's tied to his kitchen chair, in the center of the room. The guest of honor and the master of ceremonies.

His neck is resting on the back in a way that can't be comfortable, and he awakens slowly. Edward can't help but smile, half-sitting on the kitchen table. "Hello there."

Oswald squints. He can't make him out, only his sillhouette. "What is this?" A groan. "Oh, don't tell me you're one of _Brian's_  friends." It feels like an old movie to Edward, harsh lights and darker blacks.

"I don't make friends, but I gladly take them. Approaching me signals a curious end. What am I?"

The air goes quiet. Edward focuses in on the gentle humming of the refrigerator, of the air conditioner. The background noise to his life. "Is that... a riddle? Is that what you're asking me? Really?"

He frowns. "Yes. Do you have an answer?"

"Does it seriously look like I care?"

Riddler eyes him from the couch, tilts his head. Beckons him on. "If you get it right, I might let you go." When Oswald refuses to reply, he says. "I know all about you. I know who you are and what you do."

Another silence, and Oswald sighs, heavy, and says, "I guess it's death, right?"

Less of a question, more of an answer. Edward beams. "Ding ding ding! You're right. Do you want me to untie you?"

Oswald shrugs, as if he couldn't care either way. "You're really letting me go for answering your game show question?"

He keeps smiling. "Well, the door is locked. And you couldn't overpower me, anyway. You're still kind of drugged."

"That explains a thing or two."

"I have one more riddle," Edward breathes. "Just one more. If you answer it correctly, you can live."

Oswald shrugs as one would expect a man with the world on his shoulders to. Edward knows that lethargy must still be creeping into his system, but he also knows that this is his moment. With a flourish, a lick of the lips and a rubbing of his hands, he looks down at the seated man.

"Why did you murder that man? The one at the docks?"

Oswald peers through bleary eyes. "So you _aren't_ Brian's friend." Edward hates that look, like he is the one being studied. He supposes Oswald has earned it, since he's been learning about him for much longer. "So then, who are you?"

Quid pro quo, tit for tat. Silent lamb.

"A killer."

"And what am I?"

"A donor."

Oswald laughs, tilts his head. Every inch of Edward's body screams _cowardice_  and he knows it. He's losing the war. "You can't be serious."

Edward smiles. "What's a joke without a punchline?"

"Is that another one?"

"No. It isn't." He examines his room. "If you're tired, you can sleep. I won't do anything to you." Oswald has something more to give him than another cheap thrill. To act now would be an act of deprivation unto himself.

The man shrugs. "Why not." His night has been weird enough. He can sleep peacefully in the lion's den, he thinks, as he hobbles to Edward's room with just a little help.

* * *

The next morning is just a continuation of the dream Oswald has been having since the night before. He sits and has breakfast with his would-be killer. He is not the most charming, or the most normal, he thinks, but he is meek. An advantage they share, with their combined glasses and limp. Who would suspect them.

His executioner introduces himself as Edward over pancakes. Oswald does not bother, as he obviously already knows him. His captor (and he is captivating, at least when he talks at length,) is chipper.

"Do you believe in fate?" Oswald blinks, owlish at him, lips tight. "It's perfect, isn't it? My next target just happening to be a murderer too, it's almost-"

"Comical?" His eyebrow arches. Every angle in him is so graceful, Edward thinks. How hadn't he seen it before? Of course he wouldn't, not when he was just _prey,_  but now, now he's an equal. Now there are outlines and colors to him. "Listen, friend, it's not-"

"Not just a murderer, my rival."

"Rival?" He practically chokes. "I don't know _where_ you got that idea in your head, but- I am not anyone's _rival_."

Edward tilts his head. "But you are. I studied you. You're the only other active _serial_ killer in Gotham City. The only other one who hasn't been apprehended in my time."

"That is not true," Oswald hisses, "and I am _not_  a _serial killer_."

He's right, of course. There are others. Holiday, Tally Mark. But they're not him, they did not fall from the sky. Into his lap, into the mouth of the beast. "What did they call you in the press, again?"

Oswald is silent. Chewing his lip. Chewing the scenery. "The Arkham Ripper."

"Is it that?" Edward grins. "Or the Bird Butcher? Or the Gargoyle of Gotham?"

"Shut _up_ ," he pushes himself up out of the same kitchen chair he had been tied to hours before, and hauls the other man up. Makes a grab at his tie, but Edward still smiles. "Those are _stupid_ names."

"You've been _busy._  Don't you want a partner?" _Don't you want a_ friend?

Oswald makes a delicate sound between a choke and a gasp. "A _partner_? Friend, look, I think you've been watching too many crime moves. There's no such thing as Bonnie and Clyde in Gotham. It's winner take all."

Edward just smiles, hums, presses his shoulder against Oswald's. Too far in his space. "But we can be." It's perfect like this. "Destined for infinity, you and I."

Oswald rolls his eyes. "You're so pretentious. Just kill me, already."

* * *

Days go by, and Oswald is confused. He is not being held against his will- at least he doesn't think so- but where else should he go? What could he do? He has been placed here and he intends to see it through. Ed could stab him, and he could shoot Ed. Mutually assured destruction.

His head, and his world, tilts. "A lot of murderers seem likable." He knows Oswald is one of them, while he's the type to keep to himself. It's all semantics, anyway.

Oswald rolls his eyes. "There's no homework you can do for this sort of thing. If it's a mentor you want, look somewhere else. If it's absolution, then I am not your man."

The Virgil to his Dante. Hell is other people. Hell is a place alone.

"What's wrong at looking towards the past?"

Oswald eyes him, sizes him up. "Becoming a cliché, that's what." The blood thumps painfully in his ears now, and Oswald crowding into his space is a dilution of that rush he's felt before. Head fuzzy and full of air. "That's all they're going to see when they look at you," he sneers. "Poor little Edward who daddy didn't love. You're like every other murderer out there. What makes _you_ special?"

Edward _knows_ he is special. Oswald just doesn't see it yet, he promises himself as he grits his teeth, but Riddler cackles in the corner, far behind Oswald, with so much force that he kicks up his feet. _He's got us pegged. Or do you want him to have us pegged?_  "I'm _smart_ ," his saner half insists. "They'll see that soon."

He wonders what makes Oswald special.

So this is their habit, with his mentor-not-mentor, friend-not-friend, hostage-not-hostage. Sometimes, Edward will tie him to the bed at night, like some lunar beast, just to remind him who he is. He will smile and rub his wrists at breakfast. _Look what I did._ He just wants to be looked at.

Even now, they both know Oswald is cracking, too. Scowling, forehead wrinkling like fissures in porcelain. It's been too long, Edward figures, and the itch must be back. Maybe Oswald doesn't feel a need to scratch, maybe he just needs to release tension. He will give in.

Edward does not judge his methodology. To do so would be a grievance against his new house guest.

So he brings someone home. Like a cat bringing its owner a dead bird. Or an owner bringing its bird a cat. He doesn't know.

"Who is this?" Oswald inspects his handiwork boredly, chin on fist as he rests at the dinner table. A canvas bag over the head, tied to a chair. Must be familiar. A shift in point-of-view.

"Mr. Leonard. He's for you. Us."

"Where'd you find him?"

"In the crawlspace," he laughs, but Oswald does not.

* * *

The blood's congealing on his lips. It's mostly the man's- a Mr. Leonard- but he got a good swipe in before hand, clawing out of his restraints. Edward licks at it thoughtfully while laying down on the couch, arm up as a signal. Metallic. He thought bird bones would be fragile, but they taste like iron. His compatriot will not break easily. He looks at the corpse in front of him, barely a human body, and laughs. He can't wait to do that to Oswald. A maniac lying on a couch. Here comes the talking cure.

Oswald wrinkles his nose. "You'll get the couch filthy."

"I'm _dry_. Come here." Oswald rolls his eyes and settles down next to him, Edward's arm folding naturally over him. "You had a boyfriend, didn't you?" By now, he must know that Ed has plotted out fragments of his life. Like a broken mirror or a puzzle.

Oswald stiffens. "Is _this_ what this is about?" Edward hums, chin settling neatly on top of Oswald's head as the man's words end up muffled against his chest. He strokes his back, fingers trailing large loops.

"Of course not. He was a cop, wasn't he?"

The softest sigh. "Yes."

"He's the commissioner now."

"Yes."

"Are you doing this to get back at him?"

Oswald's head snaps up, and Edward can only manage an "ow, Oswald-" before he sees how _angry_  he is. "It doesn't fucking matter _why_ I'm doing this. It's _none_ of your _business._ "

Edward rubs at his chin. "I didn't mean it like that, I meant-"

" _What_?"

"What would you do for me?"

Blinks twice. "E... excuse me?"

"I can be better than him, Oswald, I'd do anything for you, and if you'd kill and kill again just to get _back_  at him, what would you-"

"Nothing!" Oswald scrambles to get up this time. He's glaring at him. "What do you mean by _partner_ , Edward? You were never that _descript_. Do you want a mentor, or a lover?"

Edward swallows, and he hears shallow laughing. "We- we need to be on the same page. Sacrifice. Loyalty. It's all we-"

"Wrong," Oswald hisses, standing back up. He looks strange, Edward thinks, with the green light shining on his face. Sickly. It's nice. "There is nothing that I am obligated to _give_  you, Edward, nor you me."

He's there, against his ear now. _Come on Eddie boy he's yours for the taking if he talks back just slit his throat if he berates you just kiss him._ "No."

"What?" Oswald seems angered, muscles tightening. _He's the only one who gets it understands look at him the consecration of Heaven and hellish desire don't you think he should be ours-_

"Stop talking," Oswald almost looks offended at the suggestion, but Edward's turned away from him. "He doesn't- that's not what this is, you're complicating things. Don't say that-"

"Edward?" And suddenly, he is soft again, small and voice beckoning. "Ed, come here. I think you should lie down." He knows.

Ed shakes his head. "He's loud, Oswald." Mistake after mistake.

"Who, my dearest?" He must have misheard it, or Oswald is trying to calm him the only way he knows how, with epithets and a hand down his back-

"Riddler," feeble, teardriven. "Him, me him- The other one. Other me."

 _The script has been rewritten_. Oswald looks at him unconvincingly for a second, before he hauls Edward to the bedroom. There's understanding in his arms. Compassion, he would say, if he was sure of what it felt like. They lay like that, lovers in a grave, and Oswald hums for a moment, before stopping with a painful stillness. His movements slow, dirgelike, distant. Solemn.

"Why do you do it, then?" Ed asks, face buried in a pillow. Oswald strokes his back. It still makes Edward flinch, but it's the kindest someone has been in a long time.

"Survival." _Come on, Aileen_! Riddler cackles.

"I do it so... people, people will notice me. To leave a mark."

"Murder, it crawls under your skin, doesn't it?" Ed fidgets, Oswald scoffs. Edward pictures what it's like, under Oswald' skin.

"You mistake me, my friend. I am no son of Gotham. As I said, it is survival." Oswald doesn't miss a beat. "Don't sleep on the couch. Sleep here tonight. It is your bedroom, after all."

Edward shrugs into the pillow. "But you're the guest, Osw-"

"I'm staying with you." Oswald, flush against him. All light snores and soft limbs. He shivers involuntarily as Oswald continues to stroke his hair.

"What's your sign?" Edward breathe-laughs.

"It's a little late for that, don't you-" Oswald groans, as if Edward pulled the sound from his vocal chords. Zodiac. "Stop it." If he never solves Oswald, that's fine.

Edward has the funniest thought, of them falling into the water from the docks, of their sins being washed away. Of being born anew.

His nails dig into Oswald.

* * *

_Can you mourn the living?_

Something like a shiver courses through him. Body taut like a bowstring, refuses the urge to snap his own neck, look at himself. Ignorance is key.

_Come now. All good things must come to an end. Your body is a grave. You know it'll be his, too._

Rigor mortis burns through him, a wildfire of necrotic tissue, but he fixes his eyes on the journal in front of him. Documentation.

_This thing you have can't last forever._

* * *

The next time is _better_. They do it Oswald's way. "If I am to trust you, you must trust me." It's terrifying and thrilling, allowing someone in, knowing them well enough to leave the details up to them. He wonders if Oswald felt the same, that first night.

Oswald and his blueprints and his machinations and his hold on Edward's mind.

There's another stab right into the meat of the man's shoulder, pulling a groan from the wreckage of his body.  _Every wound a hole for the parts of him that are missing._

Another urge overcomes him, foreign but equally powerful. He abandons his want to maim and calls for Oswald, the smaller man turning towards him. Stunning. Edward runs the side of his hand over his cheek, blood smearing down the side, and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

 _Both the hunter and the honey_.

It was not the most jaw-severing kiss by any means, but Oswald still manages to drop the knife. His hands go to Edward's face warily, but the soft noise from the back of his throat makes his reply obvious.

The man dies while they kiss. Oswald looks into his eyes as if they were not who they were. They could have been anyone else with that look, Edward thinks. Strangers on a bus, about to fall in love.

Reality seeps back in fast, desaturates and darkens. He hears his kitchen clock tick and the air conditioner buzz. The blood on Oswald's face simmers, boils, overtakes his vision. Oswald looks away, towards the body.

They begin the task of cutting it up in silence. Wrap it up in newspapers. A trip to the dumpster, their clothes dry bloodblack.

He read about someone who confessed to hundreds of murders that they didn't commit. Who has Edward killed, really? Oswald is his only victim, if he thinks about it hard enough.

_From Hell, to Hell, it's all the same._

"I'm going to take a trash bag and secure it around your neck with a zip tie," Edward breathes, "and watch it suck the air from your lungs."

Oswald shudders. "I hope you do."

"I'm going to nail your hands to the floor. Jesus Christ. I'm going to cut you up when I'm done." If he has the time, he wants to vicisect him, see all of his delicate anatomy, the things that make Oswald special. Lay out his nerves end to end, wrap them around himself.

This time, he nods solemnly, like he's listening to Edward describe his childhood, like he's telling secrets.

Then, Edward's hands crawl up to his neck. Oswald stiffens.

"Killing me won't kill your father," he murmurs. "It won't change what happened to you."

He blinks. "I didn't have a home."

Oswald laughs, strangling chords, and says, "you can't make a person into a home, not unwillingly."

* * *

"We'll fry if we stay together like this."

"French fries." Edward doesn't look up from his newspaper. He's hunched over the desk, doing the crossword. He had handed the front page to Oswald- Killing Couple Continues Rampage. "Those were last words. Real, actual, last words, this guy's last name was French, and in the electric chair he said it'd make headlines-"

Oswald sighs. "Well, we are in the headlines now, I'm afraid. They know there are two of us."

"They also think we're a couple."

Silence. Lambs. Slaughter. "Then thank God they don't know much," Oswald murmurs. "If we stop now, we might get away with it."

"What?" Ed chuckles, face a mask of worry. "You think you can stop?"

Oswald chews his lip, a hard stare at the title. "No, I know I can't, but I know I can't do it with someone else. Samson would have been invincible, it it weren't for Delilah."

 _You're just a whore to him,_ he feels Riddler's hands slide down his shoulders. _Beneath him. Six foot tall but six feet under._

"Don't leave me," his heart races. "We- we need each other."

Oswald is silent once more. Eventually, "you still want to kill me, don't you?"

Edward can't, and doesn't answer.

"You're perverse," Oswald spits. "You just _enjoy_  this. You say you're logical, but there's no reason behind it."

"It was an accident," he offers, pathetically.

"I wasn't an accident. You took me. You followed me. You knew what you were doing. You draw pain out of people for fun."

"But you do it, too-"

"I do it because I need to."

The conversation is over, he knows. Oswald's mouth is set in the same way his father's often was. His ears ring, like cicadas in the summer, like chants of _no, not here_. He is paralyzed, sits forward in his armchair while Oswald gathers the few things he has. He didn't allow him much, did he? Or did he allow him everything?

"It'll be a pain to let go of you," Oswald doesn't bother to look at him, focuses on getting his shoes on, "but that's how things are. Natural born killers are safer apart."

"Pain found it's home in me long ago," Edward smiles, smiles, smiles through it. Smiles so hard he imagines his teeth cracking and his ears ringing. "But I understand."

"I am glad we have come to an agreement, and come to a conclusion." Oswald stands before him, ceremonious, as always. Triumphant. Dusts himself off. Edward holds back, restrains himself from the urge to touch him. Shows him to the door.

"Goodbye, Oswald. Kürten would have called it a pleasure to end all pleasures."

Oswald nods, slinks to the door. Riddler screams.

_Go after him you're going to let us lose him lonely heart no more you've lost it you're losing him and his grace and his bloodletting and why-_

He's gone.

* * *

Edward prepares to rot. He clears his desk, tidies his belongings and puts his notes away. His chest already feels heavy. Weigh him down with stones and let his body sink. Oswald had carried a significant weight for him, and now- now he is alone.

Or he hopes, when he thinks he sees the shadow of his father in the corner of his eye.

 _We deserve him. We have paid our penance and we deserve him_.

He's in the woods, wide and all-encompassing, stretching out from here to eternity. _A forest is just a mass grave._ He sees roots jutting out of the ground, out of skulls that they're hoisting into the air.

Light pollution, thick over the city, but what does it matter? He would be looking at stars that went out long before he was born. Fated collision.

One last plan. Let this be the big bang of his life.

It is not hard to lure the police commissioner down a dark alley, alone. Takes only a few days of following him. _Not as important as Oswald was doesn't require notes just mental maps and streetlights._ He is easy to overtake, too. Edward has the height advantage.

He drags him back home. Wishes he could be drawn and quartered the whole time, prays for the guillotine, but who is he to judge? Gordon is the judge. He's just the chess player.

One call to Oswald- goes to voicemail, of course- and the simple instruction of "come," and he waits.

He resists the urge to talk to him at first, even when he comes to, bag around his head. "Where am I?" But he burns.

"You took something from me," he grits, "you didn't know you did it, and you took it long before it was mine, but you took it, nevertheless.'

"What?" Pitiful, dazed, helpless. Pathetic.

His hand comes down on the kitchen table. In this light, with Gordon hunched over, in this room- why, he remembers Oswald. "Mine. The only thing I had. And you-"

Swift knocks at the door. His guest, his love.

Oswald is frantic when he opens the door. "Edward, why did you-"

"I'm killing him!" His grin splits him in two. A scream of a whisper. "James Gordon!"

Like he turned up the dial on the electric chair, Oswald is speechless. Shocked by intensity, until the realization hits. He scrambles towards him, throws the door closed.

"And you would do that? For me?" Oswald's hand is close to his face now, and Edward knows he is a mess of hair and skewed glasses.

He breathes hard and nods. "You wouldn't, but I-"

"All this," Oswald purrs, "for my attention, and mine only? Anything for me?"

Pathetic, tiny jolts of a nod that earn him a smile.

"My boy," he whispers. "My _Eddie_. Win me over, hm?" A tiny kiss to his cheekbone, bird pecks. Ed shudders and groans.

"Anything-" He feels weaker now. Oswald has that effect. Stands him up and knocks him down.

"I'm afraid you can't kill him, dear one."

"What? Why?" Edward's eyes jolt open. _He still loves him of course the cop and the killer entanglement at it's finest._

"Where's the challenge? Wouldn't it be funnier if you let him _live_?" Oswald's lips are against the shell of his ear now. "Besides, they would question me, without a doubt." A quick kiss to the temple.

They make quick work of dumping him by the river, just next to it. _Look_ , it will say, _look how close you came to death_. They laugh on the way to Oswald's apartment. Elvis plays on the radio. Edward leans over and kisses him goodnight before he exits.

Riddler glances over from the shotgun seat and laughs. _He's all we have. We have all of him._

For the first night in years, he does not dream of his father.

Before he can even clamor out of bed, he hears the same knock at his door.

"Honey, I'm home," Oswald is pressed to the doorframe, bags placed on the floor. "I have more things in the car."

"Wha-" Ed glances from him to his luggage, and back to Oswald's smile. A radiant thing. Watching Oswald is like watching a trainwreck. "But you left. You told me- you told me you couldn't stay."

"Have you moved on already?" Oswald imitates shock. "Edward, I was... well, I was wrong."

An itch that can't be scratched. "About?"

Oswald crowds into his space, hands fragile on his chest. "I... Being with you has been exhilarating. And I must confess I've found myself feeling quite affectionate of you. I'm prepared to face any risk if it means we stay together, in whatever way that may be. We are better together, my sweet."

It is very, _very_ good after his failed execution. (Was it a failure, if this was what he wanted all along?) Oswald, nurturing, loving, hands along his. The kitchen knife they use for cooking one night is lodged neatly in someone's abdomen the next. Oswald sings for him, kisses his jaw. The mouth of disaster.

It is the best week of their lives. No more flirting with apprehension.

In a week, Gordon will track them down. Of course he would, now that he had a reason to. Try as he might to refute it, his life will always mean more, Edward thinks.

Dozens of men will surround their building, like some twisted, writhing mass. Sunday worship. They'll set the apartment alight, a funerary pyre, crackling with hymns and testimonies to what they did there. A baptism of fire. 

Oswald will look at him with that same look from long ago, and for just a second, Edward will think they are somewhere else, sometime else. Someone else. The only thing that burns is his brain, startled to life, synapses firing on all cylinders. Strangers on a bus. He takes Oswald's hand in his.

And then, they'll go home.

**Author's Note:**

> i honestly dont like this fic much and feel like its not up to standard but... im tired of it and its too emotionally taxing to work on any longer i guess. shrugs.
> 
> comments are appreciated and i hope you enjoyed nonetheless


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